


Ragnarök

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Paganism, This is a bit strange, Witchcraft, based loosely off of Taboo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: He told me everything when he lit the fires on the foreshore. And when they all drowned and burnt, you'll be the only one left to hear their screams. They'll speak to you, tell you terrible things. You'll hear them, like your mother did.She was mad. Are you?It's 1801. Loyalty is hard won, but when you speak to and for the dead, it gets even harder to choose a side.





	1. In dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful people! I'm back with another, quite strange, fic! This is going to be a multi-chapter, so thinks might get more clear as we go on. This was loosely inspired by the beautiful BBC programme Taboo, staring Tom Hardy, and I highly recommend that you watch it!
> 
> Anyway, as usual,  
> Enjoy!

_Water, cold like ice. It was snowing, and snowing, and snowing._

_She stood in the lake. Long hair fell down, down into the cold water, black like ink. Like death. Black strands of death falling past the skin of her back, smooth and bare and painted._

_Shaking, screaming. The water was splashing. She was drowning, pulled into the dark waters by claws and hands, gripping her skin, ripping it apart and away. The dead whisper, over and over. So loud. So many._

_Long, black nails dug into the throbbing, pulsating flesh in her hand. It bled and bled and bled, echoed the screams of the man it had once belonged to. Blackened chains bind her wrists, heavy and loud and rattling._

_Laughing. She was laughing, spitting out blood and water and flesh. Then she was screaming. She turned. Behind parted lips, painted red teeth. Behind painted lids, maddened blue eyes._

_Her body shook, convulsed violently. Once, twice, three times. Blood spewed from her lips, and she was still laughing, laughing, still screaming. More blood flowed down her chin, her neck. Down, down her naked chest and into dark waters._

_The flesh in her hand leaked blood down her arm. She held it up, still beating, still bleeding, and bit into it. Teeth ripped muscle and tendon apart, and someone was screaming. There was blood, so much blood. It dripped from her mouth, from her eyes and nose. There was nothing in those eyes. Nothing but blood and madness._

'Illya.'

_She was laughing. Pieces of flesh between her teeth._

'Illya.'

_Someone stop her laughing. Stop her she's mad._

'Can you hear me?'

_Then she was choking, choking and screaming, and the water was fire and the fog was smoke. Snow became ash and the rain her tears._

'Wake up, Illya.'

_She was screaming._

'It's a dream.'

_Someone stop her screaming._

'You're dreaming, wake up.'

_The heart in her hands stopped beating._

'Illya!'

Blue eyes fly open. There is no water. There is no blood, but he can smell it, coppery and thick and heavy. The dead, they whisper still.

'Illya,' a voice. New and familiar and American. It's concerned. 

'Yes,' Illya says. The hands around his do not loosen.

'You were,' a pause. 'You were dreaming.'

Illya sits up. The sheets pool at his waist. 'Yes.'

'You were,' another pause. 'You were screaming.'

'It's cold,' is what Illya says. 

The voice sighs. 'The fire went out, yes.'

Illya nods. He looks at the man beside him. 'You are cold.'

Sapphire eyes stare back at him. Wisps of dark hair fall in front of a handsome face. 'Illya, stop changing the subject.' 

'I am not.'

'Yes. You are.'

_I love you._

_It's cold_

_Stop changing the subject_

_I'm not._

'Yes Illya. You are.'

'What's the time?'

'Illya.'

'Napoleon.'

A sigh. 'Half past four.'

Illya nods. He stands, bare feet on cold wood.

'Where are you going?' Napoleon asks.

'Downstairs,' Illya says. He looks out the window. Black and water and blood flash in front of his eyes. Blue light and maddened eyes stare back from the glass. 'Go back to sleep.'

He looks away. Napoleon's back is to him, smooth and bare and unpainted. Someone screams, far away. Somewhere, in a lake, a woman is drowning.


	2. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deliberately ambiguous and a bit confusing, but very short, I'm really sorry :(
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

_'Would anyone like to say a few words in remembrance?'_

_'Yes.'_

Sunlight streams through the glass windows, beams of silver cutting through dark, cold air. Wisps of light pale the face of the man staring into the empty grate. The fire's gone out.

_'My father was mad.'_

Ash greys his skin. There's blood on his hands. It runs from his eyes like tears. Church bells ring. The priest speaks. A casket lies open. A corpse decays within. 

_'He would go out every day, to the banks of the Thames. He'd light a fire on the foreshore. He'd call out for my brother. He'd wade into the water, searching for him.'_

Standing over the casket, a woman. Her hair is black, and there's flesh in her hands. Her eyes are blue and empty. Blood drips onto the wooden floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. She's pale. She's dead. 

_'I suppose he wasn't even my father at all.'_

Back at the fireplace, there's nothing but cold.

The door opens. It's Napoleon.

'Illya,' he says. 'Are you coming for breakfast?'

'Yes,' Illya says. His hands are pale and clean. His eyes are blue. There is no blood, no church. There is no casket. It's buried deep underground. The woman is drowned.

Napoleon smiles. 'Come on. George says the eggs'll get cold.'

Illya nods. 'We can't have that.' 

Illya follows Napoleon downstairs and into the dining room. Soft light filters in through the large, bay windows. Sunlight glimmers on the polished, dark wooden panels on the walls. The morning newspaper lies on the table. _The London Gazette._ Beside it are four eggs, butter and toast. Coffee steams in a pot, two china cups sitting to its left. 

They settle at the table. Illya picks up the paper, Napoleon the coffee. He pours it. Illya reads. Napoleon takes a sip of his coffee.

'You didn't come back to bed last night.'

Illya turns a page. It's loud in the dark stillness of the room. 'Couldn't sleep.'

'So you sat in front of the fireplace?' 

'For awhile, yes.'

Napoleon shakes his head. There's fondness in the gesture. 'I'll never understand you.'

Illya throws him a smile. 'No.'

There's the sound of footsteps. George comes into view, well dressed and smiling. 'Your post, sir.'

'Thank you George,' Napoleon says, tossing the ones addressed to Illya across the table. They land on the wood with a thwap. 

'Mr Solo,' George says on his way out, 'your appointment with Mr Waverly is at ten.'

Napoleon groans and picks up his coffee. 'Fucking hell, that man.'

Illya chuckles. 'He may work for the King, but he's one of the good guys, as you would say.' He pauses. 'Well, not that you would say, actually.'

Napoleon shrugs. 'What can I say? I'm a republican.'

'If anyone found out, I'd be the first to kill them.' 

'You'd hang, Illya.'

Illya puts his paper down. 'Then we'd go to Ireland, and get on a ship to America.'

Napoleon's mouth twists into a wry smile. 'You've thought about this.'

'How could I not when I'm harbouring the enemy.'

Napoleon brings a hand up to his chest in mock offence. 'Ouch. I'm offended Peril.'

Illya smiles. He reaches for the coffee. 'And so you should be.'

There's a moment of silence. Napoleon sits back in his seat, one leg thrown over the other. Illya dips a piece of toast in his egg. Napoleon watches him with deep, sapphire eyes. The one he wears around his neck glimmers in the morning sunlight.

'Did you buy that ship?' Illya hums, asking for clarification. 'The one you're going to use for us.'

Illya nods. 'I bought one in auction two days ago, yes. But we'll need another.'

'What about your father's ship? Will it sail?'

Illya shrugs. 'Short distances, perhaps. She won't go far, though. Besides, my sister has her.'

'Will she give it to you?'

_'Go back to the dead, brother. Stay there.'_

'No.'

Napoleon sinks back in his chair. He sighs. 'We'll need another, then?'

Illya nods. ' _Da._ '

'Shit.'

'Indeed.'


	3. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story progresses, albeit slowly. Just what, exactly, is Napoleon doing?
> 
> Any mistakes are, of course, my own.  
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

'Morning gentlemen,' says a man, well built despite his progressing age. Wire frame glasses sit on his nose. His cane taps rhythmically on the marble floor as he walks. 'As usual, anything said with a raised hand will not be noted down in the record.'

The fat, portly men around the table nod.

'Good,' says the man. He sits himself at the head of the table. Another, much younger, darker skinned man pours him some tea. 'Thank you, John.'

'You're welcome, Mr Waverly sir,' the young man says. The men around the table shift. Waverly stirs his tea, the spoon smacking the sides of the cup loudly. A wiry, perpetually shaking man, clears his throat. Waverly allows himself a small, private smile.

'Right then,' he says. 'As you've summoned us all here at this ungodly hour, Mr Stephens,' a cold glare is directed to a balding man to the left of the table, a man with more chin than neck, 'perhaps you'd like to kick us off.'

'Uh, right. Yes,' says Stephens, the metaphorical silver spoon still shoved up his arse. He stands with great difficulty, chair screeching on the tiles. His enormous stomach presses against the edge of the table. 'Kuryakin has bought a ship.'

'He owns a shipping company,' Waverly says, picking up his teacup. 'It's is his business to buy ships, Stephens.' A couple of men around the table snigger. 'Tell me you have more than this, or I shall fire you and return to bed.'

Stephens begins to perspire. He wipes at his reddened brow with a handkerchief. His fingers are five sausages, thick and stubby. 'Of course, sir.'

There's a long, breathing filled silence. Waverly raises and unimpressed eyebrow. 'Go on man, speak before your overworked heart gives out.'

Stephens nods. The handkerchief is tucked away in a pocket over his rather large, left breast. 'It's a large ship sir.'

Waverly gives a long suffering sigh. 'His is a large company.'

'Yes sir. It used to be a trade ship, sir.' He checks his illegible notes. 'The Gloriana, or some such name. It was mainly used for material trade on the northern trade routes.'

'Has he renamed it?'

'Yessir,' Stephens says. 'It was the ship he was cast overboard on off the coast of Scandinavia almost ten years ago.'

'He must have been quite young.' The wiry man says.

'He was sixteen,' Waverly says, not missing a beat.

'Yes,' Stephens says. 'He then spent a good part of five years in some Scandinavian country. That's when the rumours began.'

'What rumours?' Asks Wiry Man.

Stephens holds up a hand. Pens clatter against the desk. The scribe slips his own pen into its holder. Waverly motions tensely for Stephens to continue.

'They call him the Russian Devil. Mad like his mother,' Stephens says. 'Quick to anger, even quicker to kill. Of course, no one could ever pin anything on him.'

Waverly hides a smile in his teacup. If anyone else could see it, they might call it one of pride. Alas, they're all too busy muttering, so it passes unnoticed. 

Waverly sets his teacup down loudly. Everyone looks at him. Stephens lowers his hand, then sits. The chair creaks dangerously as the wood bends. Waverly momentarily considers asking him to stand, if only to give the chair a break. He spares a quick thought for the horses that pull his carriage. Poor nags must be praying for his death.

Pens are placed back against paper. The scratching begins anew.

'You have more for me, I hope?'

Stephens shifts. A few people eye the chair nervously. 

'No sir.'

'Jesus man, you couldn't have put that in a letter? Could it not have waited until after noon?'

'My apologies, sir, I-'

'I'm not interested. In the future, please only summon a full meeting if you have something important to tell us. Meeting disbanded. Oh, and Clark?'

The scribe looks up from his desk, handsome and young, with dark hair and green eyes. 'Yes sir?'

'You can use that transcription as kindling, should you so wish it. At least it's of better use that way.'

Clark laughs. 'Of course sir. As you wish.'

The door opens. 'Sir,' it's John. 'Your ten o'clock is here.'

'Thank you John. Take the rest of the morning off. Buy yourself some breakfast. God knows Stephens' drivel is enough to drain even the most youthful of men.'

'Thank you, sir.' John says over the noise of everyone grumbling as they leave. Both doors have to be opened for Stephens. Waverly nods to himself, then leaves the room. The walk to his office is long, and full of stairs. One benefit of that, Waverly muses as he walks them, is that Stephens has not once knocked on his door.

He rounds a corner, sees a man sat in a chair. He nods to himself, regards the dark haired man with a smile. 

'Mr Solo, welcome, welcome.'

'Mr Waverly, sir,' Solo says with a flawless, high society English accent. Waverly would have believed him straight out of Oxford if he didn't know better.

He opens the door to his office. Solo follows him in.

'Whiskey?'

'Coffee, should you have it.'

Waverly nods. He sticks his head out of the door. 'Jones!' He calls. A man jumps three feet in the air, then wheels around to face his boss. 

'Yes sir?'

'Find someone to bring me some coffee, would you?'

Jones nods. 'Of course sir.'

Waverly nods to himself, then steps back into his office. Solo lounges in a plush leather chair, one leg thrown over the other. Waverly rolls his eyes. 'Make yourself comfortable, Solo.'

Solo throws him a grin. 'How kind of you, Waverly.'

_That boy_ , Waverly thinks. He shakes his head, slides into a chair of his own. He shuffles some papers on his desk. Solo's keen eyes wander the room. There's a knock on the door. Jones walks in, a tray of coffee in hand. He places the pot and two cups down on Waverly's desk, then exits. 

Waverly pours both Solo and himself a cup, and settles back into his chair.

'You wish to speak to me about the shipment, yes?'

'Amongst other things, yes.' Waverly says. 'How is Kuryakin?'

Solo stares into the bitter darkness of his coffee. He takes a sip of it. 'Coping.'

Waverly nods. 'I have work for you both, should you want it.'

Solo smiles. 'I'm sure Illya would appreciate the distraction.'

Waverly sets his cup down, rifles through the papers on his desk until he finds the one he wants. He hands Solo a letter. 'Read it with Kuryakin, memorise it, burn it.'

'I know the drill by now,' Solo says, reaching for the envelope. Elegant, French cursive lies on the front. ' _Vive la révolution_.'

'Quite Mr Solo, quite.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudos and a comment to let me know what you think!


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